


Akrasia

by CloudyRain27



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Death, Detectives, Dreams, F/M, Incest, Masturbation, Mild Gore, Murder, Obsession, Serial Killers, Supernatural Elements, this is really fucked up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 04:18:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18275627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudyRain27/pseuds/CloudyRain27
Summary: Tom Riddle seeks the attention of Death.





	Akrasia

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Aubry! Thank you for putting up with my shit, love. Ily so much!

 

 **Akrasia** ([/əˈkreɪziə/](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Help:IPA/English); [Greek](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ancient_Greek) [ἀκρασία](https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%BC%80%CE%BA%CF%81%CE%B1%CF%83%CE%AF%CE%B1), "lacking command"), occasionally transliterated as **acrasia** or Anglicised as **acrasy** or **acracy** , is described as a lack of self-control or the state of acting against one's better judgment.

 

 

 

 

 

Harry rubbed his hands over his face and groaned, he hadn’t slept in two days. He and his team were restless trying to predict and pinpoint the serial killer’s next move. Ron was absent, Draco was whining like a brat, Neville was still surprisingly coherent and Luna was in charge of the coffee machine.

 

In short, it was going _splendidly._

 

He had thought that getting promoted and finally having his own team would be great. He was bloody ecstatic, having his own team like his late father and godfather had had. Now, he’s not so sure anymore.

 

_Myrtle Warren_

 

_Bathilda Bagshot_

 

_Alicia Parkinson_

 

_Susana Bones_

 

In a way _he_ had been responsible for the deaths. He couldn’t catch the killer, it was his job and he couldn’t do it. He was worthless.

 

 _Enough,_ A voice sounding like his late godfather said in his head, _It won’t do well for the leader of the team to be completely knackered. Man up, will you?_

 

He closed his eyes and centered himself, counting one to ten. He needed to be strong, for his team, _for Padfoot._

 

He stood and straightened up, smoothing his crumpled uniform. He could do this.

 

He went for the drafting table in the middle of the room where pictures of the crime scene were laid out, keeping his steps measured and careful lest he disturb his exhausted team.

 

Each crime had been planned, that much they had gathered. Each crime had been too precise, too controlled to be done in a whim. They were dealing with an intelligent psychopath.

 

 _Myrtle Warren,_ had been a the first victim. Her eyes had been removed with and firm steady hand, the killer replacing them with marble ones. It painted a picture of serenity, fake glassy eyes fixed into nothing. The removal of the eyes hinted of possible occupation that involved constant surgery, a doctor who was in great demand.

 

Next, was Bathilda Bagshot. An apparently bitter old woman, who lived alone with her cats, her husband having left her.

 

Her body had been skinned from head to toe, every nook and crevice not left unexplored. Neville had checked the mast cells for any chemical changes and concluded that it was done while she was alive, traces of diluted chloroform was also found in her bloodstream. It inconclusive whether it was done to sedate her so he could kidnap her, or if it was done to render her unconscious while the mutilation occured.

 

“Either way, she felt the pain.”  Neville had said, grimacing.

 

As a child, Harry had always wondered how humans could be so despicable, so cruel. He grew older, jaded, seeing and feeling the emotional turmoil that went with his Parents death.

 

_And Padfoot._

 

He ignored the sting in his eyes and went over the killer’s two remaining victims. The picture glowed, the lights underneath the drafting table illuminating it like an eerie statue.

 

A sick, twisted part of him thought they looked beautiful, immortalised in a way they never would be if it weren’t for their unfortunate murder.

 

 _Both_ of the victims were found five hours apart on the same day. This murder was unlike his last two, _this_ murder was clumsy and frantic. The only way they could’ve linked the murders was because Draco had found the same cheap, scratchy wool found in the other crime scenes.

 

The killer was looking for something in these two victims—an absolution of sorts. They were both found kneeling with their hands in front of them, as if they were bowing to a king worthy of their reverence and worship.

 

The posture —however intriguing— was _not_ the main attraction. It was their backs, the spines had been torn, the skeletal bone protruding uglily. It was done quickly and without grace, very unlike their killer.

 

Something must have changed. Harry propped his right elbow and drummed his fingers with his left.

 

However grisly the last murder had been, they _did_ establish a pattern. In the bureau, in order to _officially_ establish a pattern, one must have at least four murders with the same denominator.

 

Odd as it was, the killer seemed to have a taste, a preference, for brunette ladies. Luna had suggested that the killer might have been abused, and was taking out their pent up aggression on their unknowing victims.

 

And while Luna’s theory had been perfectly reasonable—it just didn’t sit right to him. The killer might have been once-upon-a-time been abused hence, his twisted mind. But, this, _these_ felt more like a confession, a _love letter._ Orchestrated for someone’s amusement or dismay.

 

A sudden ringing sound interrupted his thoughts. He started at the sudden noise.

 

“Five more minutes, mum.” The sleepy voice of Neville groaned, his head twitching a bit at his desk, before falling asleep again.

 

He sighed, irritated. Who could be calling him at this late hour? He fished the outdated, black touch screen from his trousers.

 

He opened the phone and read the receiver _Alastor Moody._ His eyes widened at the name, bad news always came when his employer called, _especially_ if it was this late.

 

He slid the green phone symbol, answering the call. “Moody, what happened? Why are you calling me?”

 

Ragged breathing greeted him from the other line, as if the owner of the voice had been running.

 

“Alastor, are you okay?” He asked, his eyebrows furrowing in worry.

 

“Potter..” The grim voice of Moody, began. “There’s been another murder.”

 

Harry immediately straightened, his grip on the phone tightening.

 

“Where?”

 

He didn’t bother bother with preambles. Moody, of course, understood. He knew how much Harry had been working, just to find this killer.

 

“Wiltshire. I’ve already sent you and your team’s tickets for your flight. It’s Five AM, don’t be late.”  Harry nodded, despite knowing his employer couldn’t see him.

 

“We’ll be there.” He swiped the red phone icon, ending the call.

 

Raking his hand through his hair, he shook his head. There was another murder, and they couldn’t waste much time.

 

He quickly scanned their office and spotted Draco quietly snoring in his desk. He rolled his eyes and made his way to the blonde.

 

“Wake up, ferret.” He nudged Draco none too gently in the head. Much to his surprise, the blonde git immediately woke up, bloodshot eyes frantically searching the premise and promptly relaxing when he only saw Harry.

 

Draco Malfoy was one of his best crime scene investigators, specialising in fiber analysis, give him a minute and he could identify camel hair from wool. It was no denying that he was one of the best in his field. If it weren’t for his attitude, Harry might’ve admired him for his incredible work ethic.

 

“What the _fuck_ do you want, Potter?” He lifted his head and squinted at the clock on the wall. “It’s three in the bloody morning!”

 

You couldn’t have everything he supposed.

“There’s been another murder.”

 

The blonde paled, though Harry couldn’t be sure with his already pale skin tone. Draco suddenly stood up and fixed his usually immaculate hair.

 

“Where?”

 

“Wiltshire.”

 

Draco nodded resolutely. “I’ll go wake the team.”

 

He smiled, patting Draco on the back. “That’s the spirit! Tell them to pack the equipment too, I have a feeling that a posh county like Wilshire won’t have any proper lab or morgue.”

 

Draco scowled, “We’re going to analyze the evidence _and_ perform the autopsy there? Are you mad? You _know,_ Luna, can’t perform right without the proper tools.”  

 

“We’ll figure something out, yeah? We’ll improvise _even._ The important thing is, we can get there before the bloody tabloids do. We _need_ the crime scene fresh.”

 

Harry’s jaw ticked at the thought of Rita Skeeter contaminating his crime scene. Not again, not while he’s alive.

 

He tugged at his suit and pushed his glasses to his nose. “I’ll get the car ready. Wake both of them up.”

 

“And Weasley?”

 

He sighed. Ron’s wife, Lavender, had just given birth. Ron had asked for a leave, just to hold and see his baby boy for a few weeks. Under the circumstance, of course he had hesitated.

 

There was a killer on the loose and he needed Ronald, now more than ever.

 

But then he thought of his _own_ family, of how fast, how fleeting the moments were and how he had wished he could spare more time with his parents and godfather.

 

He let Ron go.

 

“Nah, we can handle this.” He shook his dismissively, they could handle one case without his best mate on it.

 

“I’ll bring the car.” He looked pointedly at Draco, not wanting to repeat his orders.

 

“Yes, sir.”

                                                                               ooO~Ooo

                                                    

 

 

 

Tom breathed in and out, the coldness of the air making fog appear with every breath.

 

A young woman appearing to be in her twenties, wearing a black long sleeved dress was doting on the sick orphans who had caught the _Measles._

 

He’d seen her everyday at the orphanage, caressing the cheeks of his fellow orphans in a kind, loving manner. Kissing them like a distraught mother losing her only child, before waving her hand over them, freezing their bodies, leaving them to decay.

 

Death. _She,_ had always been near.

 

The orphanage couldn’t afford vaccinations, leaving the young unsuspecting orphans to the mercy of the illness.

 

Weirdly though, he never seemed to be affected by the deadly virus, despite spending his whole day at the orphanage.

 

At first, he had thought that maybe it was simply his immune system doing its job, warding off any illness that might touch him. But as he grew older and older, he realized that he still _could_ get sick, just never serious enough to be deadly like his fellow orphans.

 

The pretty lady in black _refused_ to touch him.

 

Her painted lips had never touched his forehead, her sharp nails never grazed his shoulder, her sweet voice never whispered to him in the dark.

 

He knew that, that she knew he was watching her.  He often felt her brown eyes flitting over his form curiously, before she would quickly avert it just as fast.

 

He would always know that she was looking at him, her attention was intoxicating. It made his chest thud harder, his skin sweat slightly and his head buzz, like he had drank bourbon or gin.

 

He himself did not know if his reaction was out of fear or infatuation. Perhaps it was both.

                                                                       *

 

On his sixteenth birthday, he dreamt.

He dreamt of black lace, a small hand caressing his naked back and the smell of rotting flesh. The hand had crept slowly, steadily, to the nape of his neck; her nails scratching his skin, eliciting goosebumps.

 

His eyes had been wide and frantic, he daren’t moved.

 

A hand had gripped his chin, forcing his face to meet hers. Her face had had a youthful visage, rouge colouring her cheeks and lips.

 

Her eyes had been what he couldn’t look away from, they were dark and glassy and _looking_ at him, her attention had been focused solely on Tom. It had made him feel heady and drunk.

 

“ _Tom...”_

 

He liked hearing his name on her lips.

 

The hand on the back of his neck had travelled to the front, just in front of his adam’s apple. He could feel her hand move as he swallowed harshly.

 

Her face slowly came closer and closer to his , her breath smelling like fresh blood and cold as  melted snow.

 

He held his breath, as she lowered to finally kiss his lips. It was gentle and sweet, she tasted of fresh blood, too. He kissed back, just as gentle if not more so.

 

The thudding in his chest grew louder until he could hear it in his ears.

 

Just as he was getting used to the motions, she _squeezed._ Her hand on his neck squeezed and squeezed until he saw stars.

 

The gentle kissing had not stopped while she strangled him.

 

It was a perfect dichotomy.

 

He woke up sweating, his night clothes clinging to his alabaster skin. He lifted his feet from the bed and sat, pushing away the hair that sticked to his face.

 

There was a heavy feeling in his stomach, an uncomfortable feeling he had never felt before. He looked down at his trousers, his eyes widening as he realized that he was hard. His cock was hard.

 

He shook his head dismissively at it and went back to bed, drawing the blanket up to his chest. He tried closing his eyes, but the uncomfortable feeling at his lower half had not yet subsided.

 

He groaned frustratedly, and sat down on his bed, leaning against the wooden headboard. He looked at his tented trousers and furrowed his eyebrows, rubbing it experimentally.

 

His breathing turned ragged, he closed his eyes.

 

Sigmund Freud, had theorized that the content of dreams were dictated by unconscious wish fulfillment.

 

_What did he wish for, what did he desire?_

**Author's Note:**

> This is tagged as underage because Tom is sixteen here and there WILL be smut in the later chapters. 
> 
> This is set in the 90's, I skewed the teams birth date so they're born in the late 60's instead and Tom is born in the late 70's.
> 
> Also, to anyone who lives in England, I know that London to Wiltshire only takes roughly two hours of driving(If there's no traffic) But for the sake of Drama, let's take the plane anyways. 😁
> 
> thank you for reading!!


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